


Sure as Eggs is Eggs

by QuailiTea



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, F/M, Flirting, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 04:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12674391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuailiTea/pseuds/QuailiTea
Summary: Some things really are inevitable. But even our favorite, "Well of course they will!" couple needs to navigate things when they happen. Post-first-time-smut-of-your-choice.





	Sure as Eggs is Eggs

The aftermath of the seduction of Jack Robinson was, Phryne mused to herself, quite a delicious prospect. His clothing draped extravagantly throughout her boudoir (quite possibly more of the house too, should she venture down to check), the man himself thoroughly shattered and asleep in her bed, one bare and shining shoulder peeping from under the doona, and herself feeling like the cat that had been locked in the dairy for the weekend. The fact that she had woken before him spoke of both her ambition to continue what they had begun the night before, and the meticulous care that she had taken to ensure that he would be too satisfied to sneak out in an anxious flurry of self-doubt before she could reassure Jack that, yes darling, that happened, and no darling, I don’t think either of us regret it one single little bit. But how to persuade him?

Food, of course. Her catlike smile grew wider. Normally, something as domestic as breakfast in bed was Mr. B’s department, but the poor man was still across town under care of his sister after his unfortunate fall off a ladder. The sprain hadn’t been bad, but it turned out that his formidable competency was a family trait, and Marjorie Stephenson (neé Butler) was not a woman to be thwarted when her baby brother was in need. She would be in later in the day to assist with lunch and dinner, but Phryne had been making-do for breakfasts until today.

Today, though, today was not a making-do with toast kind of day. With a last, fond, slightly lascivious smile at the ravished police inspector burrowing his way under her pillows, she shrugged on a dressing gown and swept downstairs, collecting his tie from the newel post on the way down. At least his hat had made it onto the peg. She floated her way into the kitchen on a happy cloud of satiation before being pulled up just slightly short. While tea and toast was easy, more involved cooking in Mr. Butler’s domain felt intrusive and a bit impolite. But really, bacon, an omelet, fruit salad maybe, or some roasted potatoes and mushrooms? None of that was particularly complicated. “Time to rattle some pots and pans,” she said cheerfully, to no one in particular.

Jack awoke to a cacophony of smells. There was a very, very strong smell of Miss Fisher, which seemed to have permeated into his skin, to start with. That was explained when he dragged his addled head out of a feather pillow to realize he was in her bed, with unfamiliar pajama bottoms on. “Again?” he mumbled, waiting for the rest of whatever happened to swim back into mind. Oh yes. That ridiculous stakeout at the suspected smugglers’ warehouse. Collins was away in Geelong with Mrs. Collins, vacationing. Thus, ages and ages cramped up in the backseat with Miss Fisher, their mutual attraction all but catching her clothing on fire, interruption (as usual) at the most inflammatory of moments, a successful passel of arrests, and then lingering just a little too long over that nightcap. A little too long at the doorway. A little too long with his fingers running up her shoulder and into her hair. One tiny, dangerous, delicate stroke of his thumb across her cheekbone, like a match across a strike plate in a room filled with dynamite. He’d given in at long, long last, and he didn’t, at this particular moment, feel the need to interrogate his own state of mind any further than that. He mostly felt exuberant. Exuberant and… hungry. Which seemed to be being sharpened by the second layer of scent, under the oozing sensuality of the boudoir. Bacon?

Intrigued, Jack pulled his rumpled undershirt out from under the vanity, dragged it on in lieu of Miss Fisher’s other silken robe, and followed his nose to the kitchen, where an unusual sight met his eyes. Miss Fisher, her dressing gown tucked up at the elbows and cinched tightly at the waist, was dicing fruit while a panful of bacon sizzled on the stove, next to some eggs rapidly turning to rubber. “Phryne?” She gave a whirl and he was glad he hadn’t come any further in, since she was still holding the knife. Reflexively, he held up his hands in surrender.

“Oh! Jack, you startled me,” she said, once she’d noticed he wasn’t wearing any sort of burgling clothes. “But,” she added, noting his lack of many clothes at all, “I don’t particularly mind. Would you like some breakfast?” She gestured at the pans on the stove, just as the eggs turned up a corner and emitted a small burp of smoke. “Blast!”

Deftly, Jack reached around her, snatched a towel to protect his hand, and moved the pan off the heat. “My fault,” he said apologetically. “I distracted you.” She rolled her eyes and emptied the rubberized mass into the bin.

“Eggs are not my specialty. It started as an omelet, but was fast turning into highly aspirational scrambled eggs before your interruption.”

“You have a specialty?” Jack raised his eyebrows in interest as he dolloped butter into the pan and cracked four new eggs into a bowl for whisking. “I thought you studiously avoided the domestic side of life when possible.”

“When not necessary,” she replied with a smirk, dividing the diced melon into cups to be layered with hulled strawberries and pineapple chunks. “But Mr. Butler and Dot are unavailable, and I was hungry. And, presumably, so are you.”

“Well deduced, Miss Fisher,” he said. His back was turned again, but she could see his shoulders working as he swirled the pan with the eggs in it. It was a delicious sight, and she caught herself licking her lips. “Sleep may be the chief nourisher in life’s feast, but police inspectors do also require tea.”

“That characteristic is shared by society lady detectives,” she said with a nod. Neatly, she moved next to him, plucked up an oven mitt, and used it to retrieve a pan of roasted potatoes from the oven. “But I do find it unusual,” she added as she plated the food carefully, “that of all the men I’ve taken to bed, you’re the only one who’s helped to make his own breakfast.” He added the first perfectly fluffy cheese omelet to a plate, and turned to make the second one, a smile not quite on his lips, but shining in his eyes.

“Eggs, as it happens, are my specialty.”

“How fortuitous. You are full of lovely surprises. I wonder if there’s anything else for me to discover.” He felt the warmth of her regard as she watched him, and he focused on his hands, to keep them from trembling at the realization of what exactly he was in the middle of right now. Adrift in joy. Utterly smitten. And making an omelet for someone who probably wanted no such profession from him.

“Only trying to keep up, Miss Fisher.” He gave the eggs a careful flip, and slipped the second omelet onto its plate, nestling it next to the bacon. “You seem to have produced a more than respectable spread without me.” He turned off the burner carefully. There was enough heat in the kitchen already.

“Jack Robinson, I have an utterly disreputable aura to maintain. Don’t you dare breathe a word of my kitchen prowess to anyone, on pain of my never speaking to you again.” He faced her down at last, willing his breath to stay steady. Her tone was mocking, but when he looked her in the eye, her bravado was all vocal. Her face was clear of makeup, with a freckle here and there, and affectionate, laughing crinkles at the corners of her eyes, glowing almost golden in the sunlight that was trickling in through the windows.

“I wouldn’t risk that for the world,” he said, his voice low. “If anyone ever asks what you’re like in the mornings, I’ll tell them you once pulled a knife on me for interrupting your breakfast.”

“That sounds acceptable,” she said. Or, it’s what he was thinking she was saying. He was finding it hard to concentrate. He dropped his gaze to her hands, which were holding both plates, gesturing him gently to sit down. “I was planning on creeping these upstairs to you on a tray, but, since you’re here?”

He sat with a bump that might have been a little less of an actual motion and a little more of his legs giving way under the increasingly strong realization that he was not dreaming. He was in her house, sans most of his clothing, being served breakfast after a night of… debauchery sounded incorrect. Passion sounded too superficial, too quickly melted away by the dawn. Making love sounded close, terrifyingly close, to what had happened. But that would assuredly be the wrong thing to say. Wouldn’t it? He swallowed and reached for his fork, fumbling it slightly, and feeling a flush creep up the sides of his highly visible neck.

“Jack?” He lifted his eyes again, meeting hers in embarrassment. But better to face it down at once than not at all. They’d spent enough time together, if she was done with him now, at least she’d be kind about it. “Jack, darling.” And a little, gentle, encouraging smile flickered across her face, and seemed to alight, and land on his own. “Eat.” He took a bite, then another, and felt the prickles retreat from his hands. “You really are a good sous-chef,” she said, once he’d relaxed a little and they’d both taken a few bites. “I may have to recruit you for all of my breakfasts. Mr. B will just have to understand.” He nodded, swallowed, and searched for words.

“I would welcome the chance,” he said. Not a declaration, not as such. But still risky. She smiled again, and this time it was wider, happier, and maybe a little vulnerable as well.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she said, snapping a bite out of a piece of bacon, “of all the men I’ve ever taken to bed, you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to make breakfast for, let alone more than once.” Her free hand crept across the table and squeezed his.

“It does,” he said. “It truly does.” They ate quietly for a few long moments, the same smile still leaping from his face to hers and back when they thought the other wasn’t looking. After a while, they finished breakfast, and found themselves drifting together, then back upstairs, for whatever occupation might present itself. Phryne, in particular, had a number of ideas.

When Marjorie arrived at Toby’s employer’s house, she noted the police vehicle parked at a discreet distance down the street. Toby had warned her the good Miss might be entertaining a certain member of Victoria’s finest, but when she let herself in, there was no evidence of anything tawdry that she could see. Instead, as she aired the kitchen of the smell of bacon, she saw a pair of figures making their way toward the seaside, the man with one hand clapped on his hat to keep it from being whisked away in the breeze, and the other hand clasped by a woman in dashing plum purple, who was dragging him eagerly along. _Well that suits them just fine,_ she thought, and went to check the pantry.

**Author's Note:**

> Jack is quoting Macbeth while he cooks - Act II, scene 2, line 36.


End file.
